


The Elixir of Erised

by clover_magus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Ghost Vincent Crabbe, Hogwarts Professors, Hogwarts ghosts - Freeform, Jekyll and Hyde, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Room of Requirement, Teacher Draco Malfoy, Teacher Harry Potter, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clover_magus/pseuds/clover_magus
Summary: In the mirror was a Draco Malfoy not unlike the one everyone had known previously, save for a few minor differences. He ran his hands over the angles of his face, as if experiencing them for the first time. His eyes were green. And he had no control over them.*Draco Malfoy, Potions Master at Hogwarts, is tired of failing to be good, so he concocts a potion to separate out all the parts of him that he hates. Instead, Draco finds himself battling an alter ego comprised of all his worst traits. And for some reason, this alter ego is rather intent on wooing the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor (AkA, the Draco Malfoy Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde AU).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Vincent Crabbe & Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	The Elixir of Erised

The Room of Requirement had been long forgotten to almost everyone at Hogwarts, save to Draco Malfoy. It was hard for Draco to forget it. While first working for the Dark Lord, it was where Draco prepared for Dumbledore’s demise, no matter his own feelings on the deed. This was where he spent a great deal of time deliberating morality in his sixth year. Only a year later, this was where he nearly died. This was where he was saved by Harry Potter of all people.

It was also where his friend, Vincent Crabbe, who he had never treated particularly well, had died. It was the result of Crabbe’s own faults, though Draco could not claim he had nothing to do with cultivating Crabbe’s pride in the first place. The Room of Requirement is therefore, unsurprisingly though nonetheless tragically, where Crabbe’s ghost made his home.

“Back again, eh?” Crabbe greeted as Draco stepped through doors that disappeared into the wall behind him. Crabbe was sat, as much as his spectral form could sit on anything, precariously on top of a stack of books, which would have certainly never held his weight, had he any mass left. Draco greeted him with a nod and strode past, his hands in his pockets.

It wasn’t that Draco didn’t want to speak with his friend. It was just that Crabbe had become an annoyingly good influence, as of late. Becoming a ghost, Crabbe explained once, had really helped turn himself around. He had been making friends with some of the other poor Hogwarts ghosts that turned up since the war. He was  _ learning _ , he said, and he wanted to share so much of what he learned with Draco. Draco supposed someone besides McGonagal and the  _ Daily Prophet _ should be keeping him in check these days. He never expected it to be Crabbe, even after all these years.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you should know better,” Crabbe sang for the tenth time, surely. “You’re the potions’ master now. Aren’t there rules about testing unknown elixirs on yourself? Doubt that’ll earn you respect.”

Draco sighed, as he often did. “Respect isn’t what I’m after, Crabbe. I don’t care for my reputation anymore.”

“So you’ve said.”

Draco walked straight up to the vanishing cabinet. For so long after finding this room again, Draco had hated it. Finding this room again his first year as a professor sent him into a shaking fit. The endless towers of miscellaneous paraphernalia were still there, scorched. Burn marks streaked the room. Draco knew it impossible, but he swore it smelled like smoke. Finding Crabbe’s ghost didn’t make the outburst any better. He still hated this room, but he had learned to be very specific in what he needed from the room upon entering. These days, the room presented to him as a spacious and relatively organized study, complete with books hidden in the room, a very terrifying mirror that Draco threw a sheet over, and the cabinet. Should someone find his work, this cupboard was the best place for it to be. He opened it.

Inside was a cloth bag of vials filled with multicolored liquids. Draco hadn’t gotten the potion quite right yet, and the result was a botched batch of elixirs too dangerous to let fall into the wrong hands and too unstable to dispose of safely. Should he simply toss them in the lake, there could be enormous unforeseen consequences. Beneath the bag were two tattered books. The first was a textbook Draco was familiar with in its newer versions, but this one was riddled with notes. He had found it beneath a statue his first time in the Room of Requirement following the war (the visit had sent Draco into a catatonic fit until Crabbe found him). According to the first page, it belonged to someone proclaiming themselves the “Half-Blood Prince.” Draco recognised the handwriting though and he was almost sure it belonged to Severus. The second book was a journal of Draco’s own notes. Draco took several ingredients from his robes and put them in the cabinet: bundles of yarrow and dandelion, valerian root, pearl dust, puffer-fish spines, milk of the poppy, and other ingredients he had yet to try.

“How’s your boy?” Crabbe asked.

Draco smiled grimly. “He’s well, I think. Nearly three now.”

“You should really bring him to the castle. Show him about the old Slytherin dungeons. Let him meet Uncle Crabbe.”

Draco snorted. “Who said anything about you being his uncle?”

Crabbe was rightfully affronted. Draco hid the books in his robes and closed the cabinet. “Should anyone happen by that cabinet, Crabbe, you know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Crabbe saluted. He floated down off his tower of teetering books and hovered over Draco’s shoulder as he headed back for the door. “Hey, seen Potter lately? I don’t get much news here, but overheard some young ones talking about him while they were ditching class.”

Draco grimaced. Unfortunately, he had seen Potter. Every day for the past three weeks, in fact, strolling down the halls with casual vigor, stuffing his face at the professors’ table in the dining hall, coaching the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Potter had appeared from nowhere as an interim Defense Against the Dark Arts professor while Bill Weasley went on parental leave. This was to relatively nobody’s surprise. If anyone was qualified for the position, it was Potter. The only person perhaps  _ more _ qualified was Hermione Granger, but last Draco heard, she was perfectly content in the Ministry, running campaigns of magical social activism across the United Kingdom. She’d made remarkable headway.

It was more surprising that Potter had left the Ministry in the first place. Rumor had it Potter quit his Auror job for “personal reasons,” according to an article written by Luna Lovegood in the  _ Quibbler _ . According to the  _ Daily Prophet _ , Potter was leaving behind a sordid affair with Granger. It wasn’t the first time the two of them had been smashed together by the  _ Daily Prophet _ , and Draco rather thought Lovegood was a far more candid source, despite her strangeness. Nonetheless, Draco made a point to bring up the  _ Daily Prophet _ article at dinner out of sheer spite.

“I’ve seen him,” Draco grumbled.

Crabbe hummed. “I hear he’s got a kid, too.”

“Actually, the boy is my cousin. My aunt’s grandson.”

Crabbe raised an eyebrow. “Not Bellatrix, surely.”

Draco looked at him like he was incredibly stupid. “ _ No _ , not Bellatrix. Andromeda.” 

Draco explained the situation as best as he understood it, that Andromeda’s daughter was an Auror and got on with their third year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. They very rapidly got married, had a child, and, which Draco muttered very quietly, subsequently died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Remus Lupin named Harry Potter the boy’s godfather. Draco was rather convinced Potter’s decision to leave the Ministry had to do with the recent death of his estranged aunt, who had, until recently, been raising the boy.

“The werewolf?”

“The werewolf.”

Crabbe floated besides Draco upside down, pondering. He walked as if he was right side up. Sometimes Crabbe acted like he was still falling and falling, like he died in that fire before his ashes ever hit the ground. It manifested itself in silly ways.

“Does that mean the kid is a werewolf? Is lycanoscopy genetic?”

“It’s  _ lycanthropy _ , and that has yet to be determined. He does, however, exhibit the rather strange tendencies of a metamorphmagus, which his mother also had.”

Crabbe’s face scrunched up in confusion, wondering how so many magical inheritances could be crammed into one tiny being. Draco offered no helpful explanation. Crabbe followed him out of the Room of Requirement, floating down corridors ahead of Draco to check for witnesses. Sneaking around this way, Draco was terribly reminded of his sixteen-year-old self, hiding birds and apples in the vanishing cabinet. With Potter being in the castle once again, a dim memory in Draco’s mind gnawed at him. Potter’s eyes never leaving Draco. The sound of Potter’s footsteps behind him. Potter finding him in the bathroom, breaking down and punishing himself the only way he knew how, and throwing that spell his direction. Draco gripped his forearm beneath his robes.

“So,” Crabbe started again. He twiddled his thumbs behind him. “Have you spoken to him?”

“To Potter?” Draco scoffed. “Hardly. Cordial notes in passing.”

“You’re being rather adult about this whole thing.”

“I’m twenty-four, Vincent.”

“Draco.”

“What?”

“Will you … will you give him a message for me? I think I’m too much of a coward to tell him myself.”

Draco looked to the ghost beside him, now right side up again. Crabbe had many regrets. He died a villain. He died a coward. The only difference between him and Draco was that Draco lived. Draco was not past saving. Crabbe was never given that chance, yet he tried so hard to be good after death. Draco nodded in response.

“Tell him … That I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

Draco hated the dining hall more than anything. His coworkers, save for Professor McGonnagal, detested him and did not make  _ such _ a great effort to show respect even in front of her. He liked to arrive early to avoid the ridicule from students, who often tossed paper birds and firecracker hexes his way. Tonight, he was not so lucky.

“Hey, Professor!” called a teenage boy. Draco knew him as Mr. Tomlinson, a Gryffindor with more bark than bite and a rather hawty air about him. The trouble with teaching at Hogwarts so early in age was that by now, the first and second years who struggled under the Carrows and persevered through the war had not yet graduated. Some of these older students Draco had known. Some of them had lost friends at only eleven or twelve years old. Draco was certainly responsible for some of that. So he endured it, whether out of guilt, self-preservation, or to pay penance.

“Professor!” Tomlinson called again. His friends, another Gryffindor and some Ravenclaws, trotted behind him. “Heard you’ve been researching. You think if you take some healing potions that mark will disappear?”

Draco breathed and continued to stride forward, but he did not rush. He refused to cower. He was almost at the doors.

“My research is not of your concern, Mr. Tomlinson. I suggest you run along to the dining hall now, before I report this behavior to the headmaster.”

The glint in Tomnlinson’s eye was telling.

“Why don’t you report it to Professor Potter? He’s in charge of Gryffindor house now, don’t you know? I’m sure he’d have something to say too.”

Draco would absolutely not be reporting to that man. Potter had not said so many words to Draco since arriving, but made it very clear early on that there was no trust between them. There was a modicum of decorum, a mutual respect as professors, as grown adults, as two warring parties who saved each other once and only once in turn. A Slytherin calling out Gryffindor students was the precursor to a series of expected insults Draco had no interest in hearing.

Draco saw one of the other students pull a wand out from his sleeve, but Draco had reached the open door. The other put his wand away.

“I suppose I could always take house points away from you on top of assigning you detention.”

Tomlinson grumbled something about Draco being a filthy Death-Eater and scurried to the hall. Draco watched his shoes all the way up to the professors’ table.

Harry Potter was already sitting at the far end of the table. He didn’t always bring his godson around, but this time Teddy was sitting on top of a box beside him. The boy’s hair was black and messy today. He squished his face in his palms and made a sort of face. He looked like he was pretending to be a fish. Potter grinned and encouraged his antics.

“Potter,” Draco said as he sat down. “You might speak with your house about manners. Perhaps they’re too comfortable speaking with professors.”

Potter leveled a cautious look at Draco. Teddy turned to look at him in confusion, and his face seamlessly shifted from vexation to amusement. Potter flicked Teddy in the nose and looked up to Draco as the boy giggled into his hands.

“Come now, Malfoy. I’m sure you’re well equipped to handle some teenage ribbing. You did plenty of it when we were in school.”

Draco scowled, but sat on the bench. As McGonnagal’s speech started, a lovely, tawny owl he recognized flew in through the window and dropped a letter in his lap. As McGonnagal went on, he tuned her out and read it.

_ My Dearest Draco, _

_ Thank you for your last letter. In response to your question on my health, I am doing very well, all things considered. I took a walk in the garden today with Father and Scorpius and only felt a little tired. I’m sure I’ll feel the effects of my condition later in the evening, but I do hate to dwell on these things. Father has expressed interest in inquiring to you regarding a potion he has heard of that may help. Personally, I don’t trust it, but I do trust your judgement.  _

_ I must warn you, writing these letters is becoming a volatile argument in my house. Mother still does not approve of our continued correspondence, but as much as she would like to keep our son from you, she cannot control my personal inclinations thus far. Our boy is a testament to that fact, isn’t he? Father, I think, is coming around. He does plan on sending you questions soon. _

_ On the topic of your research, I was never much of a potions prodigy like you, as following directions was never my forte, but I did have a great interest in herbology. It is less of a science, more of an art. I went through some of my old books with your research in mind. If you’re trying to separate two halves of a whole, you may find it useful to preface which parts are being separated in your ingredients. Consider a rose; its petals are what is most desired, but its thorns are intrinsic to its nature too. Perhaps using the whole rose, but in separate steps, may move you forward in your discovery. Or, perhaps I am being silly. _

_ I am getting rather tired now, so I will leave you with this. In yet another act of tremendous bravery and rebelliousness, I have attached a photograph of our son. Scorpius grows a little more every day. He looks so much like you, it’s uncanny. He is very calm, and very serious. He reminds me of your mother. _

_ I miss you dearly. I know I remind you that we are always friends far too often, but you can stand to listen a little more. Scorpius misses you too. I am trying to get mother to allow you over for the holidays. Are you interested? _

_ Yours, _

_ Astoria _

The photograph attached depicted his son, thin and pale, picking a white rose from Astoria’s garden. He was barely tall enough to reach it. Astoria’s shaking hand guided him in cutting the rose from it’s bush. Such a smart young boy, so careful around the thorns. It tugged at Draco’s heartstrings. He wanted to cut his own chordae tendineae and send them to the now ailing Olivander to make a wand of, so that in nine years, his son may have a chance at grasping it. It sounded like dark magic, and it sounded insane, but he wanted Scorpius to have some part of him. God, he missed him. He hadn’t seen Scorpius in months. He hadn’t held him since the year he was born. Draco dimly realized that dinner had begun as the sweet smell of pie wafted his way, so he folded the letter and put it in his robes. When he looked up, Potter was staring at him, face impassive.

Draco decided Crabbe’s apology could wait. He felt that if he spoke to Potter about it now, with Teddy here, he would not be met with a welcome greeting. He wouldn’t receive a welcome greeting either way, but Teddy didn’t need to see his godfather so unhinged.

He picked sparingly at his mashed potatoes and apple pie for the rest of the evening, and brought some mulled wine with him to his quarters. He pinned the photo of Scorpius above his desk, put the letter in the box full of others, and poured himself some wine. He was awake for a long time, but he cast a sobering charm on himself, locked his door, and took a sleeping drought. If he dreamed of anything, he was glad he could not remember the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I making a Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde AU, you ask? I have an obsession with gothic science fiction and memorized the Jekyll and Hyde musical. I also feel a need to correct the mistakes of the un-esteemed author of this series.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I enjoy feedback.
> 
> \- C.M.


End file.
